Dave’s Ramblings – Bournemouth
Two home games in three days, especially around Christmas time, is a tough call. I am still carrying half my body weight in sweets, chocolate and cake!
I’m writing this intro still bearing the emotional fallout from the Aston Villa defeat, just before Bournemouth arrive to either restore my faith or finish it off entirely. The usual questions are rattling around my head: what team will Maresca pick, what tactical masterpiece (or social experiment) will he unveil, and will Raheem Sterling be announced in goal purely to see if anyone is paying attention?
As for those insisting, “we’re always rubbish in December,” please let’s retire that excuse like we should a dodgy centre back on a seven and a half year contract. First of all, it’s not even true. And secondly, even if it were, ‘seasonal collapse’ isn’t some sort of footballing amnesty where results stop counting until January.
We’re now 5th in the league, three points behind Liverpool. Yes, that Liverpool, the ones who had their worst run since dinosaurs roamed the planet. Somehow, even extinction-level football isn’t slowing them down enough for us.
My hope for the game (yes, I am a misguided fool) is that we won’t just beat them. We’ll give them such a footballing lesson they’ll be launched into the middle of next Thursday,
sobbing all the way back to the seaside, where they’ll sit on the beach, eating chips, staring into the horizon, wondering what just happened.
Just after 19:30, reality arrived, it didn’t knock, it just steamed in and immediately kicked us in the shins. Semenyo, apparently en route to Manchester City but clearly with time to kill, decided to sling in the ball which naturally they scored from. That’s how predictable we have become. Playing chelsea? No real need for tactics, nor artistry, just a long throw. Why? Well we have zero discipline and little cohesion. So suddenly we’re one down wondering when exactly it all went so wrong.
The Bournemouth fans broke into a rousing chorus of “how sh@t must you be, we’re winning away.” Fair play to them, it’s not often you hear such brutal honesty delivered with such a catchy rhythm. I found myself nodding along, like a man being read his own medical results.
Thankfully, parity was only a brief delay on this scenic tour of chaos. Semenyo, taking a well-earned break from his weaponised throw-ins, decided to bring down Estevao in the box. After a lengthy VAR séance, the referee eventually remembered penalties exist and pointed to the spot. Palmer stepped up and scored. Obviously. Some things in football remain comforting constants.
Less than ten minutes later, Enzo Fernández smashed one into the top corner to make it 2–1. Finally, order restored. Control regained. Thrashing incoming. I allowed myself a smile. Four minutes later, Semenyo launched another long throw, this one taken from just outside Fulham Broadway Station and, naturally, they were level. Hope, once again, briefly visited before immediately moving out.
Honestly, the match was turning into a Sunday morning schoolboys’ game. This realisation made me panic slightly, as muscle memory kicked in and I briefly worried about my unfinished geography homework and whether the orange slices would still be available at half-time.
Half-time finally arrived to put the madness on pause. The uncomfortable truth was that, despite us fashioning a few chances, Bournemouth had clearly enjoyed the better half, racking up 14 attempts and repeatedly testing Robert Sánchez. To his credit, he kept us alive, once again proving he wasn’t the complete numpty we’d all confidently labelled him not a lifetime ago.
The second half, by comparison, was practically a mindfulness exercise. Maresca rang the changes, some inspired, some clearly experimental, while VAR decided Bournemouth definitely hadn’t earned a penalty, despite it looking absolutely nailed on from my seat. Chances were missed at both ends, enthusiasm slowly drained away, and that was that. We now boast one win in seven league games, while Bournemouth continue their proud tradition of none in ten. A true meeting of form, and maybe this is now our level.
My takeaways…
I’ve got a lengthy list tonight, so strap in. First question: do we ever actually practise defending in training, or is it more of a trust-the-vibes situation? Specifically, how many long throws do we need to concede from before someone remembers that clearing the ball is a basic football concept and not an optional extra.
Next up: Liam Delap. I know he’s young. I know he’s got potential. But right now, he is absolutely not what we need. And without wishing to sound cruel, there are fridges in Curry’s with a better goal threat, and they come with a warranty and cost significantly less.
Wesley Fofana… where do I even start? The first rule of defending is, traditionally, defending. Unfortunately, Fofana treats this more as a loose guideline. He goes walkabout more often than Crocodile Dundee, and at times appears to be defending an entirely different match. Maybe there’s a player in there somewhere, I honestly couldn’t tell you, but what I can say with confidence is that he inspires absolutely none in me.
Now for some truly radical thoughts, so please don’t hate me. I don’t actually think Reece is that good at corners. I know, I know, we scored one against Villa, and that moment will be cited in court for years, but generally they’re so predictable it’s like we email the opposition beforehand. Slow, floaty, easy to defend. Whatever happened to just whipping a corner in with some pace and a bit of menace, instead of gently gifting the goalkeeper a confidence booster?
I know I go on, but honestly this is just the highlights reel, there’s a full director’s cut I’ll save for another day. The truth is, on another night Bournemouth win that game and nobody could complain. And if we’d nicked it, which we absolutely could have, then yet more glaring issues would’ve been lovingly wallpapered over and ignored until next week.
Maresca, apparently, wasn’t well enough to face the media afterwards. Make of that what you will. Perhaps even he’s getting fed up with the dross his own team and tactics continue to serve up. Or maybe there’s a simpler explanation: he’s fled the country, been kidnapped, is currently driving Semenyo to Manchester City, or has already been gently escorted out of the building.
I don’t know. And frankly, I don’t care. What I do know is that City are up next, and regardless of the result, I just want a performance that suggests someone, anyone, actually gives a toss about the shirt they’re wearing. Because pride, much like defensive organisation, has been in very short supply lately.
In the meantime, still champions of the world. UTC
Dave M
